Brilliant Conversationalist
by Garrae
Summary: Detective Kate Beckett is, Castle has observed, a woman of irritatingly few words. In fact, a woman of almost no words at all. Except, though her mouth doesn't talk, her walk says everything. And her walk is talking to him. Two shot, set in 1.04. PWP.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Detective Kate Beckett is, Castle has observed, a woman of irritatingly few words. In fact, a woman of almost no words at all except the bare minimum necessary to give orders and tell him to stay out of the way. Preferably permanently. He can't tell a thing from her almost-non-existent words, except that they imply that she _really_ doesn't like him.

Which is very weird, because he already knows that she's read every book he's written, which means she's a hard-core fan, and he is also sure from some very subtle tells that she's interested. Women who are interested in him like him. Always. They _really_ like him. And they show it.

They certainly don't treat him like he's an annoying toddler with attention deficit disorder who's more in need of the naughty step than anything else (although he does love being naughty, it has very little to do with steps, or toddlers). They flirt, and go out on dates, and wear sexy clothes, and give him the serious come-on. Which he is very happy to reciprocate.

Detective Beckett does absolutely none of that, which is really pretty insulting if you think about it. She should flirt. He does, and it's just plain rude not to flirt right back. All she does is chop him off at the knees, with a look that suggests that she'd enjoy it more if she was chopping off his testicles. She can't still be sulking that he'd shoved his way into the precinct, can she? It's three weeks after that first, fascinating, case, and surely that would take holding a grudge to a whole new level?

Not that Beckett seems to be short of grudge holding ability. She holds on to grudges like they're a winning lottery ticket. Mostly, she holds a grudge against criminals, lowlives, and anyone who gets in the way of her bulldozer forward momentum when she's solving crimes. So she shouldn't be holding a grudge against him, because he _helps_ her to solve crimes.

It's just not _fair._ If she'd only _talk_ , he's sure he'd win her round in no time. But she doesn't. She never says anything useful – that is, anything that isn't connected to the case, or that's not snarky as hell and designed to shut him down and make him feel two inches tall. He has no idea what she's like off the job. None. And yet there are those tells.

Castle leans back in his chair, contemplates his laptop and the words on the screen with considerable disfavour, and then turns his mind to contemplating Beckett, also disfavourably. She just doesn't _talk_.

Ah. Oh. _Ooohhhh_. He smiles dangerously.

Her _mouth_ doesn't talk. Her _walk_ says everything.

If she were the buttoned-up, buttoned-down, closed-off, shut-in woman she pretends to be – she wouldn't wear those shoes. Those are _fuck-me_ shoes, foreplay in four inch heels, sex on stilts stilettos. And Detective Beckett knows exactly how to use them. He remembers the way she'd leaned forward, perfectly poised and balanced, and whispered _you have no idea_ – and then the way she'd walked away with hips that lilted like Lilith and swayed like a succubus.

She let her walking do the talking and every single step away from him sang a song of sex.

 _Oh, Beckett_. _I've got you now. Your walk will tell me everything I want to know. I'll walk with you – right into bed._ Or a wall, or the door, or a couch. Or all of them. Now he knows why he's chasing round after her in a constant state of semi-arousal and sheer want. It's because every snarky, angry, get-lost bite of words from her mouth is contradicted by every swaying, sensual step which he can see – which she _shows_ him, though he doesn't know if she knows it – when she goes to the break room, or the restroom, or upstairs to the gym, or downstairs from the gym with oh-so-sexy damp tendrils from a shower. She wants him, too. She just won't use _words_ to say so.

Castle's smile turns predatory and possessive. _Okay, let's play this game_. He puts a fine mind into sixth gear, and begins to plan his tactics and strategy. Beckett has two modes of operation: angry focus, and cool reserve. Except her walk, of course.

He's _good_ at picking up non-verbal communication. He's _good_ at unspoken motivations. And he's _really_ good at finding out the story. If he just uses all those talents, he'll work out how to align Beckett into one coherent whole, and then he'll be in position (so to speak) to align her for a much better use of some other very specific talents.

He leans back again, puts his feet up on the desk, brings them down again so that he can move to pour himself a celebratory Scotch, and then re-establishes his lazy, relaxed position so that he can contemplate all the little fragments of Beckettness which will coalesce into one whole Beckett in his bed.

Specifically, he thinks about her walk, and calls up the picture in his head. Always in pants, never a skirt. And always in heels. He guesses that's a power thing. There aren't that many women evident in the bullpen. There is only one scorchingly hot woman, and it's her. Okay, so she must be tall anyway, but those heels put her not far short of his height, and he's not small. (Anywhere. As Beckett will soon discover and enjoy.)

He can always tell where she is. Her heels machine-gun rat-a-tat across the hard floor of the precinct, or on the sidewalks, or anywhere else, for that matter. Always definite, always utterly confident, always in charge and in control. He would dearly love to see her out of control. She doesn't even drink much, as far as he knows. Her only indulgence seems to be candy, and from her stunning figure she must make up for the candy with extensive exercise routines. As long as those aren't the sort of exercise routines made for two, of course – what?

That was an unexpectedly possessive thought, for someone he only met a fraction over three weeks ago. Okay, so she hasn't mentioned a boyfriend, and God knows none of the others talk about anything personal either: they all seem to spend every last hour at work, but still, she might have one. Except he's damn sure she doesn't. All those little tells, again. He's not close enough to have worked out the shift pattern yet, and he has no idea where Beckett lives anyway. It's not normal, this non-communication. It really isn't.

Still, he should really concentrate on this reading that Gina's threatened him into giving. He's a good bit happier about it now than he was a couple of days ago, because he's seen the reviews, and apart from that one his mother found, they're stunning. Too, he likes giving readings. There are crowds of adoring fans, he only has to read what's on the page rather than give extempore speeches about how he writes (it's instinctive. He has no idea, and telling people his word choices are made because they – well, _feel right_ simply doesn't cut it), and his sales skyrocket every time.

It would be nice if Beckett turned up. Preferably in a skirt. Skirts are so much…friendlier…than pants. Provide so much more…opportunity. Especially with legs that long. Plus the heels, of course. Ohhhh yes. Shame it's not so much unlikely as impossible. Still, even if she doesn't, her walk is one long come-on: a conversation held only with him.

* * *

It's really just as well that he has an encyclopaedic recollection of every word he writes. Otherwise there would have been a very embarrassing pause, and drooling is not a good look after you've grown out of the baby teething stage. _That_ walk is an invitation to the nearest wall; sex in every step; foreplay in the flirt of the dress's _skirt_ : she's wearing a _dress_ – and all he can think about are those legs wrapping round his waist. His hindbrain is speculating about underwear – or none. His forebrain is thanking God for the lectern, which is hiding his reaction. His mouth is still reading perfectly smoothly, which is quite extraordinary because all but a single neuron is listening to the utterly _filthily_ provocative conversation of Kate Beckett's walk.

She prowls. She doesn't walk. She prowls, as smooth and sultry and dangerous as a leopard; and her prowl purrs _look at my legs; watch my walk: pay attention because I'm talking to you._ He wonders if she'd purr in bed: purr as his mouth worked its way to the top of those legs and then give the predator's hunting scream when his tongue took her; and after, no anger or sniping or snarking, but the kittenish softness of a well-satisfied woman; finally his. He hauls his mind back to the reading and finishes. His hindbrain hasn't stopped speculating for a single second, but it can't show, thank God, because the adoring public is definitely keen to share its collective adoration, and he really does love being adored.

Which is why it is so irritating that Kate Beckett has barely managed to applaud. His book's already at the top of the bestseller lists: even the critics (mostly) love it; everyone here adores it, and him – and _she_ won't even applaud, and worse, looks wholly bored? Doesn't talk, doesn't flirt, doesn't clap – what _does_ she do?

He knows what he'd like her to do.

As he circulates, carefully working closer to her without making it obvious that's what he's doing, his overheated brain keeps thinking about all the ways he could turn her into a melted, whimpering mess beneath his hands and mouth; all the ways he could cage her under his body; all the ways he could take her.

And then he turns up by her side, and there is even more length of leg on display than he'd thought from the safety of the stage, and the stilettos gracing the ends of them are an escarpment of eroticism. Her mouth is lush. Her eyes, by contrast, are sardonic.

She criticises his writing. She _criticises_ his _writing_! No. Freaking. Way. _He's_ the writer, and the best seller. What does _she_ know about creating a mood; about the atmosphere emanating from the page; about making his readers see and feel what he sees and feels? Absolutely. Nothing. It's innate brilliance and she _doesn't have it_. Her talent is emphatically _not_ words.

"Oh, you're telling me how to do my job?" he bites out.

"Irritating, isn't it?" she snipes back.

And as if the incipient fight isn't inflammable enough, his _mother_ interrupts and spills the beans about Nikki, and then retreats, leaving confusion, chaos and disorder in her wake – and a lot more irritation on both sides.

"I told you she was kind of slutty," he growls.

"Change it, Castle." It's an outright demand. He doesn't like being ordered around. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the less he likes any of Beckett's behaviour. Especially, he dislikes her dishonesty about being attracted. He instantly conceives a plan.

"No," he states flatly. "I won't. It's perfect. I'm not having you try to tell me how to write when you know _nothing_ about it."

"You tell me how to do my job and you know less than nothing about that."

"I do so. I know more a lot more about investigating than you do about literature."

"You think? My minor was in Russian literature. You know, actual good, classic writers? I know far more about literature than you do about anything except being the town playboy."

"Yeah? Well, for someone who pretends to be Ms Ice Cold Cop you're doing a pretty poor job of hiding how much you're attracted to the town playboy."

Over the course of the increasingly angry exchange they've moved from the centre of the room towards a back exit. Castle knows exactly how that happened. Beckett hasn't noticed, being wholly caught up in her increasing anger.

"Attracted? How the hell – even someone as conceited and arrogant as you can't believe that."

"Sure you are. You know exactly how you walk. You're giving me the come-on with every step. And turning up in that excuse for a dress? You'd barely get a handkerchief out of it."

"I wear what I like."

"Yeah, sure you do. And you like wearing a dress that would turn on a year old corpse, never mind any living heterosexual male. You wore that dress 'cause you know _exactly_ what it does. Same with those heels."

She's been walked out the door without noticing, just as she hasn't noticed Castle shoving it shut. They're alone in a dimly lit back lot; edged with brick walls.

"So I like wearing heels. So what? It's not my problem if you can't control yourself."

"Isn't it?" Castle purrs, and takes a final step that means her back is almost against a wall. "Same as it's not your problem that every step you take in your _fuck-me_ stilettos is screaming that you want me?"

He can talk anybody round. And now she's talking, and she's so riled up that if he simply starts to steer the conversation he'll have the truth.

"If I wanted you I'd have you," she bites out. "I wouldn't have to try."

"Oh? I'm not that easy. You've walked like you want me for nearly four weeks and you haven't got any further than the first time," he whips back. "All that _you have no idea_ and that swing of your hips and you're pissed 'cause I won't play."

"You _what_ now?"

"You thought I'd come chasing after you and I wouldn't. You tried playing hard to get and it hasn't worked. So now you've upped the ante with that tiny little dress and I still won't play."

"You haven't taken your eyes off my ass for a single second since you shoved your way into my precinct 'cause I wouldn't go to dinner with you and _I'm_ the one who's chasing _you_?"

"Yep. You're the one who came to _my_ reading, all sexed up. It's very pretty," he adds patronisingly, and moves again so that they're barely an inch apart: her back hitting the wall and in those mile-high stilettos their faces almost level. "I didn't invite you, though. So who's chasing who now?" he taunts.

And that ignites Beckett's incendiary temper.

"You've been following me with your tongue hanging out and constantly trying to make me notice your _assets_ – which aren't that impressive" –

"Oh, so you've been looking?" –

"and if I'd wanted to have you all I'd have had to do was click my fingers and you'd have been right there."

"Click your fingers? You'd have needed to do more than that."

"Yeah? Half an ounce of encouragement and you'd have had your tongue down my throat."

"Bullshit." It's not a lie. Half an ounce of encouragement and he'd not just have had his tongue down her throat, he'd have had her pushed up against the wall, too. _Just a little more, Beckett. Just a little bit more and you'll prove you want me._ She's absolutely incandescent with sheer rage. He opens his mouth again.

She completely loses it, hauls his head to hers and kisses him hard. That's not half an ounce of encouragement. That's about fifty tons. And encouragement is all he needs.

He flattens her against the wall and presses right between her legs – _unimpressive_ assets? No way – and takes her mouth just as hard and roughly as she'd just taken his. She explodes under it: her hands clamping around his head and knotting in his hair until he pulls them away and imprisons them either side of her head: capturing her with the bulk of his body and caging her against the wall so that he can grind in to make her squirm and open so he's hard against her hot centre and she's still moving. He rolls his hips again and she gasps desperately into his mouth and tries frantically to free her hands so that she can win control of the sex-war of their kiss, but he won't let her because if he lets her have control now he'll never, ever be in control, not ever, and he is _not_ going to be the bottom to her top. No. Way.

He pulls her arms up and catches her wrists into one hand, pulls that down behind her neck and just about manages to angle her mouth for his rough possession; brings the other hand down to haul one long leg around his waist and then slide along her thigh, no gentleness, no soft stroking, simply a claim of total ownership. She whimpers and rubs against him: his hand moves round to the curve of her ass and holds her tight and still so she has to stop moving till he allows it.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Two shot, final part on Tuesday. I'm sorry I didn't get it finished in time for the Pornado, but if the organisers will allow me I'll tag it to that._

 _Prompt courtesy of vjlee: She let her walking do the talking...and she's a brilliant conversationalist, from the song by T Graham Brown. The song was released in October 2009, but I hope you'll forgive me bringing it forward a few months._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Or he would stop her moving with his hand on her ass, except that he couldn't have stopped himself going further for all his Storm royalties. She's still fighting to take control of the kiss, still arching and curving and pressing into his chest and trying to grind against his thigh, and his fingers slip away from her ass and around to the front and slip and slide and glide between them and beneath the scrap of fabric and she cries into his mouth and he's got her.

She's drenched. He touches her intimately and she cries out again, muffled by his mouth still over hers; he slips fingers into her and it's scalding: he's so ready to take her here and now but _no_ , not yet, not here: it's all totally out of control and he wrenches free of his invasion of the soft hot cavern of her mouth but can't stop himself licking wetly round to her ear and she writhes and mewls and he stills his questing, arousing fingers.

"You do _so_ want me," he purrs. "As much as I want you. You'd let me take you up against this wall right now." He takes her with his fingers, and she gasps. "You've been talking to me with every step you take and _this_ " – he slicks his thumb over her soaked core– "is what you've been saying. You're so wet and hot and tight and you _want_ me to do this" – two fingers slide slowly and she clenches around him, little flutters and she's not fighting him for the lead now, oh no – "and take you right over" – he nips her ear, and licks behind it again, and strokes his fingers till she can't stand but for him pinning her to the wall – "but I'm not going to." He stops. "Not yet. Not here."

He removes his hand, and slowly licks his fingers clean. It's wholly obscene and utterly erotic. "We're going somewhere you'll talk with your mouth, not just your walk. You're going to admit you wanted me and then we're going to prove just how good it'll be. You'll be so wound up you'll stop pretending you don't know what you're doing and pretending you don't know what your walk says and you'll stop pretending you don't know what you do to me." He grinds into her again. "You know exactly what you do to me. Don't you?"

But he doesn't let her answer, instead plunges back into her mouth and fights her aggressive kiss till he turns it into her surrender; till her hands cling to his shoulders and her leg wraps round his waist and she is definitely not in control and not in charge – and not saying _no_ or _stop_ or anything at all that might not be wholehearted consent.

When he lifts off he simply says, "We're going back to yours. The town car's out front." His mother and Alexis have long gone. They know never to wait for him.

"Why?"

"Asks the woman whose leg's wrapped round my waist and who's been kissing hell out of me while I've got my hand up her skirt? Why d'you _think_? It's seriously not classy for the first time to be up against a wall in a dirty back lot." But if he hadn't stopped it would have been…and she wouldn't have made a single move to stop him.

She stares at him, scant inches from his face, eyes wide and pupils dilated, mouth swollen and damp; and bites her lip. He looks back, eyes hot and intent, still imprisoning her (not that she's trying to escape), consciously exuding forceful masculinity and an unspoken demand for her surrender. She's still not using her words, though her body is telling him volumes: all of it one X-rated story, printed into his frame.

But now she has to use her words. She has to _say_ it. She has to say _yes_.

He waits, still fully erect where she's still open and pressed to him; restraining himself from leaning in that last inch and owning her lush mouth all over again; forcing himself to keep his hand from sliding back over the inner softness of her thigh and turning her into a hot mess.

She has to say _yes_.

She doesn't say anything. She leans back in and kisses him again, hard, rolling against him and taking control.

Trying to take control.

"No," he pulls back. "You want it, you _say_ so, and we go back to yours."

"Yours," she contradicts. Oh no. Not at all. He's going to find out where she lives.

"Family. You won't want an audience," he adds with sublime arrogance.

"You" – she starts, which is surely going to include the words _big-headed_ and quite probably _asshole_.

"Me. The one who had you right on the edge moments ago. You were right there. You wanna be there again. Or maybe you don't. Makes no odds to me." He creates a small gap between them.

"Like hell," she bites, _still_ fighting. " _This_ " – she palms over him – "is no odds? Feels like you're _right there_. Like you _wanna be there again_. Or maybe _you_ don't. Makes no odds to me."

"Why are you _still_ making a fight out of this? Just stop pretending and _decide_."

" _You_ stop pretending."

"Me pretending? You're the one trying to pretend you don't want it. Me. Anything that might prove there's something worth trying. _You_ kissed _me_."

"Like you objected like you're some shrinking violet virgin? I didn't hear you saying _no_."

"You weren't saying _no_ either. _You_ wouldn't have cared if I hadn't stopped."

"So why did you?" It's a taunt.

"Because I'm not screwing you up against a back-lot wall like you mean nothing when I could do the first time right and make love to you in private!"

And then he realises just what he's said when Beckett gasps.

"So just _stop_ fighting and say _yes_ or _no_."

"It _means_ something?" she gulps with extremely unflattering disbelief.

"No, I _always_ throw myself into death defying danger just for the sake of a quickie. Of course it fucking _means something!_ So can you just hurry up and decide already if it means anything to you so we can take this _elsewhere_ before someone finds us and it's all over the papers?"

There's a shocked silence.

"Mine," she suddenly blurts out, and frantically looks around the dark lot for an exit. Castle spots a gap in the wall, grabs her hand and tugs her through it, round two corners and whips them both into his waiting car.

"Where to?" he says. Beckett gives an address, the driver acknowledges it and the instant the engine is turned on Castle puts up the privacy screen and falls on her mouth again. There isn't one single iota of resistance – though yet _again_ she's still fighting for control. He is _not_ going to be her toy. He fights much harder and places a large hand high up on her thigh, feeling the jerk of muscle and her desperate response to his hard kiss. His fingers slide upwards and he'll turn her to liquid before they've ever reached her apartment, leave her hot and wanting; wanton – _his_.

The town car is smooth, quiet – and far too slow for either of them. Matters have become far too heated in a very short space of time, and a mere moment more would have found them in an extremely compromising position. As it is, they each need a brief time to – er – tidy up, and their breathing is rather rapid.

The door of Beckett's apartment open, Castle gives it one swift, all-encompassing glance and then dismisses everything but Beckett from his view. Not that he can see much of her. Most of his viewing is being conducted by his searching, frantic fingers and his hard, possessive mouth: one hand knotted in her hair and holding her under his lips; the other finding the fastening of her dress and loosening it till the dress falls and she's revealed: a tiny hot pink bra; even tinier hot pink panties. Somewhere in the scorching, frenetic contact his shirt has become undone; they're skin-to-skin; still standing in her main room; and he lifts her clear of the puddled dress and she wraps legs around his waist and he rocks against her so she moans. He lifts off just long enough to spot the bedroom and then carries her there.

There hasn't been a single word since they got in the car. There hasn't been anything except the aggressive war for control of the uncontrollable, raging desire flaring between them. Beckett's whole luscious body is talking, though, and what it's saying to Castle is _take me_.

He's absolutely answering her physical conversation. He drops her on the bed, flat on her back and standing between her astonishing legs, looking at her soaked and panting and finally, finally, absolutely not in any form of control of him at all; pins her down and ravages her mouth and traps her hands because _he's_ going to stay in control of this; he's going to make her whimper and gasp and moan and beg and then she'll _say_ his name. Scream it. Over and over till it's – _he's_ – branded on her.

He tears away from her lips, keeps possession of her hands and moves down: not seducing or flirting but commanding: straight to the point and straight south; his hands over her hands holding her open for broad shoulders and wicked, wicked mouth. He loves doing this. He loves the effect it has: the complete melt down of control, the surrender to his ability; the tangible and audible proof of exploding desire. He settles, licks – and even through fabric she convulses.

So he does it again. And again, and her hands clench almost-painfully in his hair where she's wrenched them from his, so he pauses to strip the scrap of panties from her and return with nothing to stop him turning her to liquid lust. She's writhing; dancing to his tune and her mouth is only giving out his name, and he sucks and thrusts and has to hold her down again when he stimulates her knot of nerves until she cries out his name once more and comes _hard_.

He's naked before she opens her eyes, removes her bra without a hint of a complaint.

"You were screaming my name," he purrs darkly. "You liked that. Your body was talking to me all the way. Let's have some more" – he pauses, wickedly – "conversation. We can talk like this all night."

She's reacting simply to his voice. He trails fingers over her body, through soft soaked folds and back to small firm breasts.

"See, these" – he strokes over the hard points – "are telling me that they want some discussion. Like this." He dips his head and sucks. She mewls. He raises his head again. "Are you talking to me?" he drawls. "'Cause your body's talking to me." He plays with her breasts some more, and she writhes and whimpers and can't reach to turn him into the mess he's sure she wants to create. "I think you're talking to me," he whispers darkly. _She'll_ be the melted mess here. _His_ melted mess, and then she'll be his melted mess for a long time to come. She's addictive, and he's not even trying to resist temptation.

She tries to pull him up over her, and fails: tries to bring his head to hers, and fails; tries to roll them, and fails. Castle has the distinct impression that failure isn't one of Beckett's – um, _failings_. He also has the distinct impression that her inability to take control is leaving her completely turned on, and, dimly through the fog of total lust, wishes he'd known that three weeks ago, because he'd have hauled her back from _you have no idea_ and _debriefed_ her in the most literal way.

"It doesn't work," he purrs dangerously. "I'm not your toy. Pretending you weren't interested didn't work either. You should have used your words, and we could have got here" – his hand slips southward and she bucks – "much sooner. It's good to talk." His hand moves again. Talking is not the noise she makes. "Isn't it?" Another incoherent noise. His fingers take her again, thumb slipping wetly over exquisitely sensitive nerves. "Who are you talking to?" She forces out something completely profane. "That's not nice," he reproves, and winces as her nails score his shoulders. She clenches around his seducing fingers. "Who're you talking to?" He's taking her higher and there she will _stay_ till she admits his name.

She tries to roll him again, and fails, again. "Not going to work." There's a thin, high noise of desperation, and she writhes and moves under his erotic torture. "Never going to work. Equals. I'm not your puppet." He stops, again. "So _who_ are you talking to?"

She clamps her lips together. He leans down slowly, dangerous sexual intent in each line of his body, the look in his eye, and runs his tongue along the seam in time with the movement of his fingers, and she opens, instantly; despite all his intentions to make her speak he plunges back in and they mutually explore until he's so wound up himself that he barely remembers his name, never mind his plan to make her say it.

Just in time, he does remember, just before she crashes over, just before he takes her with all of his body and brands possession into her and on her. Just in time, he stops.

"Who are you talking to?" and this time, finally, she replies, answers him.

"You," she breathes out, but it's not enough.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Castle," she cries, and he rises over her and replaces hand with hard body and _fuck_ , she's so amazing around him that he can barely hold restraint.

And then she scores down his back and he growls deep in his chest and the dam has broken because she's using her _words_ and all of them are _yes, more, harder, deeper, Castle, Castle!_ but his only word is _Mine_ ; and after that there's only her, and heat, and heaven.

After, the tenor of their bodies' conversation is completely different: despite their nakedness it's less blatantly sexual; a gentle discussion of comfort and cuddling and the necessity for her curves and length to fit to his muscle and strength. Words are not, as yet, in evidence.

He strokes softly over her skin – she's so smooth and silky, lean but still somehow lush, slightly sheened with sweat and the small marks of his possession blooming on her breast, her thighs. He can feel the stripes she's scratched into his shoulders: she wasn't gentle. He'd never expected her to be gentle, and though he'd hoped for purring contentment afterwards he's very surprised that it has eventuated. She's very soft, post-coitally, all her muscles lax and languorous, lazy in his clasp. He likes it. More than likes it.

But she's not talking, _again_. He pets and strokes seductively, trying to incite her to words, but all that happens is that she curves and purrs softly and snuggles against him. If it wasn't for the absolutely spectacular sex, she might as well be a cat, for all the words she's not emitting, though from the scratches on his back, she'd be a tiger.

"Talk to me," he murmurs into her ear, and nips it. She merely purrs again, a velvet noise without a single discernible word. "Words." She stretches, rubs over him, and smiles inscrutably. He's immediately aroused again. Her smile expands. Clearly, she thinks that she has the upper hand. Castle tucks her into him, his front to her back, and traps her there with complete freedom for him to play some more.

His petting and stroking becomes considerably more targeted and specific, but he matches it with dark murmurings, treacly tones to trickle over her: to seduce and slither through her synapses and pool and heat at her centre. She's still damp from the earlier round: he moulds a breast in one large hand, enveloping it, and deploys the other to run lightly between her legs and dip briefly in and out, stimulate the nerves there, push one leg between her knees to give him space to work her up and have her naked and gasping, squirming on his touch.

"Who's your body talking to?" he rasps into her ear, and licks that one key spot so she moans. "Who are you talking to?"

"More," she moans, and he rolls to his back and pulls her over to straddle him and slips slowly inside her again.

"Who're you talking to?" he demands. "Say my name, because you're talking to _me_." He moves slowly in and out, filling the tight heat full, and she's fluttering around him: her body talking with her legs around him and her hands gripped in his but she's not using _words_ : she has to say his name. "Who're you talking to?"

"You."

"Who?"

"Castle!" and she's gone on the word.

"You're talking to _me_." He moves slowly, still hard within her. "And I'm talking to you. We need to talk to each other because this could be _great_."

"I don't talk," she breathes, provocatively.

"I noticed." He moves again, and kisses her, and lifts away. "You don't talk with words. Your body talks to me all the time, though," and he touches her till she arches to him and he thrusts harder and they fall into rhythm and come together.

"See, you should have talked to me before now," Castle says lazily, still holding Beckett close.

"Words are over-rated," she says.

"Hmm."

There is silence, for a while, till Castle speaks again.

"Even if you don't talk to me with words, that's okay." He kisses her hard. "You're still a brilliant conversationalist."

 _ **Fin**_ **.**

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _For those interested, the next story up will start shortly: No Flag on the Play._


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